


The Adventure of the Forged Bill

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Unplanned Pregnancy, Murder, PTSD, Pre-Slash, Prostitution, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson are summoned to the scene of a murder where the servants are lying and the victim may have been worse than the murderer. Some things can't be fixed, even by Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Forged Bill

In the early days of my association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I found myself drawn further and further into his work, and not objecting in the least. I had intended to take the greatest care of my own health in case I should recover enough to return to the army, though I knew it to be impossible. It was not only my body that was injured, but my mind as well. But I might at least to be able to start my own practice should I ever save enough money. Instead I found myself chasing after Holmes in all sorts of weathers and situations, often having to patch both of us up afterwards. I wondered rather often if I was mad, but I had a purpose in life, as I had had in the army, and I found it invigorating.

It was early in the year 1882 when Holmes tossed me a telegram over breakfast and said, “He at last has the sense to call me when the scene is fresh.”

The paper read, “Come at once 141 Kennington Park Road. Bring doctor as police surgeon ill. Gregson.” I smiled at him, more from relief at being of some use, six months after the army had informed me I never would be again, than excitement, and said, “When do we leave?”

“At once,” he said, thrusting his untouched plate from him. “Come along.”

Our hansom let us off at the corner of the street and Holmes meticulously examined the pavement as we walked up it to the address Gregson had indicated. If he found anything of interest among the ice and dirt, he didn’t tell me.

The tall, fair official detective met us at the door to one of the better-kept-up townhouses on the street. “Hello, Doctor. Mr. Holmes, it’s murder,” he said, shaking our hands. “The victim was the master of the house, Mr. Luke Tarken. The housemaid discovered it this morning and I thought it best to call you. I think you’ll find the scene interesting. Come inside.”

“What do the servants say?” asked Holmes as the Yard detective led us through the house.

“The girl found the body in the study at six o’clock when she was lighting the grates. The servants – there are only four, two maids, his valet, and a cook – were all in bed by eleven, but he stayed up, saying he had a meeting with someone, and he would let him in himself. This wasn’t very unusual, apparently. No one heard anything after that. Here we are.”

He opened the study door and let us in. It was not a large room, but very well-furnished, dominated by a large mahogany desk. I did not take much of it in, however, for my attention was caught by the terrible sight in front of that desk.

The body of a large dark haired man was sprawled full length across the Persian carpet, and the blood had soaked deeply into it around his head. From the back, this was almost the only sign of the fatal wound, except the horrible way his skull pressed against the floor. I bent to examine him more closely as Holmes, without waiting for permission, began to study the room and furnishings avidly. “You have, of course, allowed the servants to tramp all over the evidence,” he observed to Gregson as I peered at the wound.

He stood just when I had finished. “How many ways are there into this house?” he asked Gregson.

“The front door, the kitchen door in the area, and the back door to that alleyway.” He waved at the study window. “And they were all locked this morning as usual. So were the windows. That’s what I thought might interest you.”

“And where is the back door?”

“It’s a servants’ door, downstairs. This house is on a slope.”

“He had no guests staying last night?”

“Well, I shouldn’t think so,” said Gregson. “If he had I’d already have questioned them, believe me.”

“Indeed, you probably would not miss the most obvious possibility, if nothing else.”

“The most obvious man is Mr. Dawkins, the valet, and I think it’s likely him.”

“Oh, do you? Watson, what have you found?”

“He has been struck in the front of his head, just above the left temple, with some narrow instrument,” I said. “It would take a man of some strength. He died no later than one in the morning, most likely around midnight.”

“That is all?”

“No. Look here.” There were several small bloodstains on the back of the man’s coat, and raising his shirt I revealed the faint impressions showing he had been struck after death.

“Excellent, doctor,” said Holmes, delighted. “He was struck over the head, from the front, and after he fell the murderer beat him with the murder weapon.” He was almost indecently enthusiastic. “The poker is missing, as you no doubt noticed.” I understood my companion’s sense of humour by then, and appreciated the surprise on Gregson’s face as he glanced at the fireplace.

“No doubt that was it, then,” said Gregson.

“An improvised weapon,” said Holmes. “He didn’t come here planning murder.”

“But why should he beat him when he was already dead?”

“Surely it is obvious,” said Holmes. “Doctor, come look at this.”

He had moved to the desk. I joined him, and saw he was examining a deck of cards. “If you found you were playing cards with this deck, Watson,” he asked me, “what would you do?”

There was only one thing he could mean by that, and looking carefully at the pattern on the backs I saw that he was right. “Find a new table,” I said, “and have the scoundrel responsible for it ejected from the premises.”

“Quite so. We are lucky he chose the one method of cheating at cards that leaves material traces. But why would he keep it in plain sight?”

“Perhaps it’s not his deck, but the murderer’s.”

“Why would any murderer be such a fool as to leave it here? Marked decks are often unique to their owners, and if he used it himself he would want it later. Ah!” He smiled to himself, and picked up the object next to the deck. It was some sort of medallion, which had been holding down a sheet of paper. A letter – no, a bill. Holmes looked it over and smiled.

“Well,” he said. “This case certainly has the charm of novelty. Imagine a man who would leave such things out on his desk just before an appointment. I will take this with me.”

“You’ll take it with you?” asked Gregson. “Where?”

“That’s of no importance. Now I must question the servants.”

“Mr. Holmes – oh, for heaven’s sake, take it, so long as it’s back to me by tomorrow. I’ve already questioned them. I could show you my notes.”

“I’ll do it myself again.”

“They won’t like that,” Gregson said with a sigh.

Dawkins, the valet had nothing to say. He had been upstairs seeing to his master’s boots and waiting for him to retire, and when he had not at midnight he went to bed himself. He explained that this was his usual practice unless Mr. Tarken had asked him specifically to wait up for him, and that if he was wanted upon Tarken’s retiring the man was accustomed to waking him then. He enjoyed his work and had liked his master and was offended by any suggestion of a grudge.

The housemaid had been upstairs banking all the fires before retiring when she heard the knock on the door; the cook had been seeing to the kitchen. They had both ignored it, following Tarken’s instructions, which were not unusual. The housemaid claimed to have seen the valet in Tarken’s dressing room around eleven and then some time later as she went to bed in the attic.

“And you?” asked Holmes, looking at the tweeny, a frightened girl of no more than fifteen.

“I was in the kitchen, sir,” she said, twisting her hands in her apron.

“All of the evening?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and the cook nodded.

“So no one saw him coming in,” said Holmes, still frowning at the young maid. “Did you see him go out?” The girl gasped.

“Annie!” said the cook. “You should have summoned me at once!”

“I didn’t know,” said the girl, looking miserable. “I didn’t know Mr. Tarken was dead then, did I? I didn’t realize, just thought it was odd that he was taking the servants’ door...”

“You should have told me immediately,” said Gregson. “Imagine if we had not thought to question you all again.”

“But I should have stopped him,” said the girl, twisting the cloth of her apron still more frantically. “I didn’t know...”

“Yes, yes, well, it’s good that you’re telling us now.”

“You _should_ have stopped him,” said the cook. “No guests should be going through the servants’ areas, and at night, too. You should have taken him right back upstairs again, and asked the master why he was letting him do such a thing. And if you had, you would have found him.” The young girl was nearly crying now, and Holmes put up a hand.

“The girl has been in your employ for how long? Three months?” he asked. They all stared at him. The cook nodded. “I think, in that case, you had better not be too harsh with her. Annie, tell me exactly what you saw, and when.”

The girl took a deep breath, and said, “I was just finished with cleaning the scullery after doing all the dishes, and I was going to my bed, and I heard footsteps behind me. I thought I was just imagining it, so I didn’t go to look, but I ducked into my room quickly and they got louder. Then I saw he was coming down the hall, and he had a candle, I just saw the light and I thought it was Cook, but he kept going and there’s nothing past my room, just the door. And then I saw him, just his back, and he put the candle on the shelf and opened the door with a key and blew out the candle and left, taking the key with him. I thought it was odd, but Mr. Tarken might have given him a key and I checked the door and it was locked and I didn’t know it was wrong, sir.”

“What did he look like?” asked Holmes, with a trace of impatience.

“Ah – fair, sir, and wearing dark clothes. I couldn’t see his face. He was short, and a strong man, I think, sir. That’s all I saw, I’m sorry, sir.”

“Was he carrying anything besides the candle?”

“He – he might have been. I didn’t see, sir.” Holmes sighed with exasperation.

“Had you ever seen him before?” asked Gregson.

“No, sir.”

“Did he look like any other of Mr. Tarken’s guests?” Holmes asked.

“Looked like the upset young lady, he did,” the maid volunteered, and was rewarded by glares from the cook and the valet.

“Which young lady?” asked Holmes.

“Oh well,” said the maid, blushing. “I don’t know, I’m sure...”

“Annie was speaking of a friend of Mr. Tarken’s,” said the cook quellingly. “She has only been here once.”

“When?”

“A week ago,” said the cook.

“Who was she, and why was she here?” asked Holmes, looking at all the servants.

“I’m sure that’s none of our business, sir,” said Dawkins firmly. Holmes rolled his eyes slightly and looked them all over again.

“This may be vital to finding Mr. Tarken’s killer,” he said, but this as well failed to produce any result, though Annie again looked conscience-stricken.

Holmes sighed. “Watson, did Mr. Tarken still have his own keys when you examined him?”

“No,” I said. “He had nothing in his pockets except some change.”

“You might have mentioned it sooner. So. The murderer has both his poker and his keys. You might want to change the locks. Now, as to Mr. Tarken’s habit of having visitors late at night, and letting them in himself. Who were those visitors?”

“I would not call it a habit, sir,” said the valet.

“Yet you were quite accustomed to retiring before him, and being told not to answer the door. Were these visits related to his business?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“What sort of people came?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

Holmes sighed. “You must have heard their voices. Men or women?”

“I believe mostly men, sir.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “And what was his business precisely?”

“He had many different investments in the City, sir. I assume they came to speak to him about them.”

“Why not during regular business hours?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. He had many visitors then, as well, of the same sort.”

“How would you know their sort, since you did not let them in or see them?”

“Well, sir, that is why I can’t say for certain what their business was.”

“I think we are done here, then,” Holmes said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Can any of you think of anything else to say that might be relevant?” None of them, it seemed, could. “Gregson, take me to the servants’ door.”

Holmes examined the corridor past the kitchen first, both the floor and the walls, and even glanced at the smoke-covered ceiling. That done, he almost leapt to the shelf by the door. “This must be his candle,” he said. “The same type as the ones in the study, you notice – not a servant’s cheap tallow. But there were gaslights there, of course. He lit it himself, after. It must have been on the desk, where there was a spot of wax. You can see it has been carried while lit; the wax has dripped down heavily on one side. That corroborates the girl’s story. He was not familiar with the house, if he used this, and wouldn’t know where the gaslights were in the rooms he passed through. There are some fingerprints on it – have you seen Faulds’ paper on their usefulness for the identification of criminals, Gregson?”

“I can’t see the usefulness, when all we know of him is that he’s fair and short, like a quarter of London. Unless you want to take Mr Dawkins’, for comparison.”

“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Dawkins is left handed and moustached. We want a right handed man, missing the tip of his right ring finger, clean-shaven, who smokes cheap cigarettes without a holder.”

“And what’s his name?” asked Gregson, with some surprise.

“That may be more difficult.”

“Yes, I’ll say so.”

“Let me see this door.” Holmes turned away and carefully examined the edges of it, the lock, and the knob. He then bent to the floor and looked there. “Hmm,” he said. “All right, there is nothing more I can do here.”

“Right then,” said Gregson. He turned and led us upstairs to the front door. “Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. Anything else?” Holmes merely smiled and exited.

No sooner had we left than he grabbed my elbow and pulled me down the street. Had he not taken hold of me I would likely have followed him all the same, drawn as always by his enthusiasm. “Where are we going?” I asked.

He said nothing, turning a corner sharply, and then another, which took us into a narrow alleyway between the backs of the houses on Tarken’s street and the one behind. “Here we are,” he announced, and led me up the alley. He counted the houses as we made our way through it, and stopped before a door that looked to me like all the others. I leaned against the wall beside it, putting my weight on my good leg, as he began to study the area intensely.

Seeing Sherlock Holmes in action has always been a pleasure to me, and this occasion was no different. He had been flushed and excited since we entered the house, and now he looked on every detail with an absolute intense focus. He first minutely examined this side of the door, taking out his lens when he came to the area around the latch, then knelt and studied the pavement without any apparent concern for the cold or the state of his trousers. After some time around the door he smiled, waved at me to follow him, and made his way slowly up the alley, in the opposite direction to that we had come from, examining the cobblestones all the while. With occasional difficulties, all of which he seemed to overcome, we at last came to the street at the end, where he shouted, “Ha!” much to the surprise of passers-by, and turned right.

“We cannot trace him any farther, of course, Watson,” he said, his gaze roving over the neighbourhood, “but at the least we have a direction to start in. It is more than I expected. Now for the brothel.”

With that, he summoned a cab. “Come,” he said, and pulling me to it he gave the driver an address in the East End.

“Holmes,” said I, “ _where_ did you say we were going?”

“The brothel,” he said, “at which Mr. Tarken appears to have an extremely large outstanding bill.” He flourished the paper he had acquired from the scene of the murder. “The medallion on top of this was from the place as well.”

“There are brothels that send bills?” I asked. “Like tailors?” My experience of the places was that any attempt to ask for credit or pay in any way other than cash in advance would not be received kindly.

“Odd, it is not, Watson? We shall make our way there and discover whether this is a particularly singular brothel, or merely a particularly singular criminal.”

“You think the murderer is associated with the establishment?”

He shook his head. “My dear fellow, nothing could be further from my mind. I have no fixed theory as yet, however. I suppose it is possible.”

“How did you know all those things you told Gregson?” I asked. I had not tired of listening to him explaining the minute details he had observed, and I did not believe I ever would.

“What, the man’s description? Well, that he was right-handed, and strong, is clear enough from the wound. If only I did not have to wait for the police to drag me in after they have stomped around everywhere, I might know more from his footprints. I won’t insult you by telling you how I know what he smokes; there was ash all over the study carpet and cigarette butts in the fireplace. I could see that the cigarettes had not been pressed in a holder, and yet had been burned closer to the ends than they could have been by any but a clean shaven man.”

“But that he is missing part of his finger?”

“He had rested a hand on the desk. The polish, warmed by his fingers, held the prints moderately well, and yet the impression of the ring finger was missing. It is difficult to move that finger independently of the others, and not a natural position, therefore he must have injured it. The candle holder confirmed this, but you’ll notice Gregson did not see it. Ah, here we are.” We alighted from the cab, and Holmes tossed a coin up to the driver casually as he turned to the street.

It was not the grim neighbourhood that I had been expecting. The houses were large and fine enough on their outsides, and the one we approached was one of the better, richer seeming ones, with patterned brickwork and polished iron railings. There was no sign indicating its nature, and the windows were curtained. We mounted four steps and Holmes pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Inside was a small cloakroom draped with velvet curtains, with a dark-haired woman sitting at a desk at the end. “Hello,” she said, smiling knowingly, “and what would you two gents like today? We’ve a couple of fresh girls just in.”

“I wish to speak with the proprietor of this establishment,” said Holmes. “We are here on business, not as customers.”

“The who?”

“The madam.”

“Why?”

Holmes smiled. “Now surely I don’t have to explain something as simple as that to you?” he asked, a coin appearing like magic in his hand. The woman assessed it and put her hand out.

When it was safely in her pocket she said, “Mrs. Royal’s in her office. Through there, at the end of the hall.” She jerked her thumb at a door to her right.

Though the area behind the front desk had seemed opulent, the corridor through the door was clearly not for public use, and was much tamer in appearance. The office at the end, however, was large and richly, if tastelessly, decorated. A woman of middle years sat behind the desk, looking surprisingly ordinary, like a businessman’s wife. “Yes?” she said, frowning at us.

“Mrs. Royal,” said Holmes, approaching the desk, “do you recognize this document?” He held out the bill for her to see.

She took it from him, looked it over, and laughed. “I’m not such an idiot as to try something stupid like that,” she said. “Any man tries leaving here without paying, he won’t be walking home to await a bill in comfort. No, I didn’t write this. Where’d you find it?”

“Do you recognize the handwriting?”

“No,” said the woman, without looking at the paper again.

“It’s a strange sort of joke, isn’t it?” asked Holmes lightly. “A joke on you or on him, do you think?”

“Him? Whose was it?”

“Mr. Luke Tarken’s. I know that of course you must be private about such matters...”

“I don’t know the name, no. It seems meaningless.” She looked over the paper with a calculating eye.

“Do you have any enemies, Mrs. Royal?”

“Enemies? Trust me, sir, I deal with my enemies on my own. Now, is this all you wanted, or have you anything else I might find interesting?”

“Only this,” said Holmes, taking it back. The woman’s hand left the paper with reluctance. “What I wish to know is whether you have any idea who might have written it.”

“No,” said Mrs. Royal, “and that is hardly your concern, is it? How did you come across it? And who are you, if this is your only business here?”

“Well,” said Holmes, smiling, “that is hardly your concern, is it? It is likely quite meaningless.” He quickly waved me out before him.

Once the door to the corridor was shut behind us, Holmes smiled charmingly at the hard-faced woman at the desk and said, “And what might I find here, should I want to?”

“Oh, well, sirs,” she said, settling into her accustomed script, “we can accommodate most anything you’d like. Girls only, here, but I can recommend you another place for boys. But we have all sorts of girls staying here, sirs – _all_ sorts, and all sorts of equipment for your use. Quite virginal girls if you want them, sir – _very_ virginal, if you understand me. We’ve everything you might need for _whatever_ you want, and underground rooms so you’ll have some privacy if you need it. Do you want to meet some of our young ladies?”

“Not now, thank you,” said Holmes. “Good day.”

I pulled Holmes aside just outside the door. “It is none of my business, but you cannot mean -”

“I certainly _don’t_ mean to, Watson,” he said, shuddering. I was relieved to see he was as disgusted as I.

“Is there nothing you can do about that place?” I asked. I did not question that if there was anything to be done, Holmes was the man to do it.

“Nothing,” he said. “The police already know about it. The constables here are probably taking bribes. And as long as all the girls are over twelve no one will care whether they are willing or not.”

“ _Twelve_ ,” I said.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Some crimes are too great for one man, Watson. Let us consider the smaller ones.” He waved at the street, his motions fierce with restrained energy. He began speaking quickly as a hansom pulled up.

“It’s a hellish place, but it seems quite useless for our investigation. An utter waste of time, then, Watson, in a place I would have far preferred to avoid. 221 Baker Street, please, cabbie. Our victim, then, though likely not as pure as the driven snow, was not guilty of any of the multitude of vices one can apparently indulge in there. I highly doubt he amused himself by cheating at cards, either. The objects, then, were left with him after his death, by the murderer, to slander him. It is a case of revenge, as even Gregson should have guessed by the bloodstains on the man’s coat.”

“Revenge for what?”

“The central question, Watson. Excellent.”

“But why would he not simply name the crime he was avenging, rather than fabricating others to accuse him of?”

“It would provide a clue to his identity, of course. And I suspect he wishes to protect the victim.”

“Of the murder? Oh, you mean Tarken’s victim. Do you know who it is, then?”

“I may. But I must think, Watson.”

He was silent for the rest of the journey, and upon our return to our rooms he lit his pipe and settled himself in his armchair with the air of a man who does not want to be disturbed.

An hour later he sprang to his feet. “Come, Watson,” he said, and I followed him out the door.

We returned to Kennington Park Road, where Holmes again ducked into the alley and knocked at the servants’ door. It was answered by the maid, Annie.

“Oh!” she said. “Sirs! Oh sirs, you should have come to the front. I don’t know -”

“You needn’t worry about the proper thing to do, Annie,” said Holmes. “We are here to speak to you. I am certain you won’t be begrudged the time when it is understood why we are here.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, I don’t know, sir...”

“My dear girl,” I said, “everything will be fine. Take us to see the cook, and we will explain it to her.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She held the door open. Holmes was frowning, I saw. I couldn’t imagine why.

Annie led us to the kitchen, where the cook was glaring at something on the stove. “Was it the rag-and-bone man, Annie?” she asked without looking.

“No, ma’am, it’s the gentlemen from this morning, ma’am. They want to ask more questions.”

“Ask who?” She turned, frowning at us. “Good day, sirs.”

“Me, ma’am.”

“Oh yes? Wouldn’t you prefer someone else, sirs? She’s flighty.”

“I would not dream of taking you from your work,” said Holmes.

“There’s not much to do without another pair of hands. I’ll come as well, if you like.”

Holmes was gazing off into the distance. “Just Annie on her own will be fine. Surely, as it is just before lunchtime, you are far too busy to accommodate our curiosity.”

“It’s just the servants’ lunch today, sir.”

“Of course it is, my apologies.” He wandered aimlessly into the kitchen as he spoke. The cook turned to watch him. “Though speaking of curiosity, what will happen to the house now? Is there an heir?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Tarken’s brother, or so we think, the will not having been read yet. He’s in York, and has no town place of his own, so we think he’ll want it kept as it is.”

“Ah, that’s well enough. Excellent for you, since surely he’ll want to keep such loyal servants as you around. Let men of all ranks do their duty and rest satisfied, eh, Watson?”

In the short moment that the cook instinctively followed his gaze to me, he picked up a lid that was lying on the counter and gently placed it on the pot on the stove. As she turned back he was yards away, walking back to the door past a shelf covered with pots and pans. “I have been thinking of what you said about Mr. Tarken,” said he. “Tell me, how often did he have visitors late at night?”

“Rather often, sir.”

“I mean, ones that he let in himself. He let them out as well, surely?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But after you were abed, of course.” He raised his voice slightly. “Were they his business clients or his friends? Mr. Dawkins said he held various investments; do you know anything of them? I am hoping, you see, that the visitor last night was of the same type as the usual.”

“I can’t rightly say, sir. He wasn’t the talkative sort – oh, heavens!”

The pot on the stove had boiled over while Holmes was speaking, and soup was bubbling around the edges of the lid onto the stovetop and the floor. The cook hurried over to it.

“We’ll just speak to Annie in her room. You needn’t bother with us,” said Holmes, turning quickly and striding off down the hall. I urged the maid to follow him and brought up the rear.

“In here?” Holmes asked the maid when we had reached the last door in the hall, opening it without permission. “Ah, I see I am right. After you, miss.” Annie stared as he waved her in, bowing slightly, but she entered, and we followed her.

She sat on the bed, which was the only place to sit. It was a tiny, dismal room. The walls were covered with greying whitewash, luckily mostly hidden by the dim light from the small grimy window looking out to the alley.

“Annie,” said Holmes, “I wish to know about the young woman who visited Mr. Tarken last week.”

“Oh!” she said, looking at the closed door. “But Cook -”

“I should like to hear what you yourself have to say. She can surely manage by herself for a time. When did the visitor come?”

“Last Wednesday, sir, just before teatime.”

“Did you answer the door?”

“Yes, sir, it was Emily’s day off and Mr. Dawkins was upstairs.”

“What did she look like, and what did she say to you?”

“Well, she was blonde, sir, and grey eyed, and not very pretty. Short and stocky, like. I told you, she looked like the man I saw last night. She said she was Lucy Collins to see Mr. Tarken, and she insisted on coming right in.”

“Names at last!” said Holmes. “Thank you! What then?”

“I took her to the study but got her to wait outside the door when I went in to tell him she was there, and he said he wouldn’t see her. So I told her that, and she went running in anyway, shouting at him. But she slammed the door, so I couldn’t hear any words. Not that I would listen in, I mean, sir.”

“They were both shouting?”

“No, just her. He was being all quiet. I thought I should go, but Mr. Tarken poked his head out and told me to get Mr. Dawkins, so I did.”

“And then?”

“Mr. Dawkins went in and a minute later he came out again holding her and took her to the door and put her out. That’s all, sir.”

“She was not speaking then?”

“No, sir.”

“Have other young women come for Mr. Tarken?”

“At night sometimes, sir. Mr. Dawkins was wr-”

“Annie!” The cook opened the door. “Oh, hello, sirs. I can’t spare Annie any longer.” She was glaring with suspicion, but so would any housekeeper be upon finding a maid alone with two men.

“Thank you for her time,” said Holmes courteously. “I am dreadfully sorry for the interruption.” He took her hand and kissed it, and she jumped and her expression was caught between a glare and a smile for a moment. “Good day, madam.”

“Good day, sirs. I’ll just show you out.” We followed her up the stairs and down a corridor to the front door.

“That’s enough for today, Watson,” said Holmes as we walked to the road. In the cab home he chattered about music and ignored my attempts to ask him about the case. When we arrived at Baker Street he sat in his armchair, lit his pipe, said, “Kindly don’t speak to me for a while, Watson,” and remained perfectly still for the rest of the afternoon. I was more or less used to such behaviour from him by now, and attempted to banish my irrational feeling of being shut out. It was his case, not mine, and I had no particular intellectual gifts that might aid him now.

After supper he disappeared into his room and reemerged disguised as a day labourer. I was still not used to his facility with disguise then, and he made me jump. “Good night, Watson,” he said, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out, my dear chap.”

It was useless talking to him in such a mood. I tried anyway. “Have you eaten anything today?” He merely grinned at me and vanished out the door.

It was like that all week, with Holmes going out in disguise in the evenings and returning long after I had fallen asleep. Gregson dropped in once, but Holmes put him off with vague hints and forced him to admit that Scotland Yard had no leads.

Two days after Gregson’s visit, at the time when he usually began to disguise himself, Holmes crossed to the door in his own person and then turned to me. “Coming, Watson?” he asked.

I nearly jumped to my feet. “Of course. It is for the case?”

“Indeed. I have finished with the work requiring subterfuge, and tonight I would be grateful for your assistance and your revolver.” Smiling, I took the weapon out of its drawer and checked that it was loaded.

“Ready?” asked Holmes, and I nodded and followed him out.

We went most of the way in a cab, but Holmes stopped it in a narrow street across the river. We walked through a light fog past darkened warehouses and the offices of less prominent shipping companies. It was not a well-frequented neighbourhood, and we passed no one. The buildings loomed over us, with empty windows and locked doors. At last Holmes nodded at a warehouse in slightly better repair than most, with a light in a window beside the door indicating it employed a night watchman.

“That _should_ be it,” he said. “I was not expecting...” He walked up to it and looked the building over, slowly getting closer to the window. He glanced in from a number of angles, being careful not to be seen from the inside, but left shaking his head.

“I can’t see him. Around back, Watson,” he said, and he led me into a gap between buildings. It was a tight fit, and various unidentifiable debris covered the ground, but it was never quite too much for my leg to negotiate. At last we emerged into a sort of yard at the back, a widened section of an alleyway. There was a second door here, as well as a large one for loading and unloading carts. Holmes took out a small lantern and a book of matches and struck a light.

“Hold this steady, Watson,” he said, passing the lantern to me, and he drew me to the smaller door and began to pick the lock.

“I supposed I should have first asked your opinion of trespassing as an evening’s pastime,” he whispered, “but we will cause no mischief here, and our presence may be lifesaving. This should take but a moment more.” At last he turned the lock fully, and the door opened a crack. “There. Put out the light, and silence, please.”

He listened at the door for a minute as I extinguished the lantern, and then eased it open. I followed his lithe figure into the dark space behind it, and closed the door as silently as possible. Dim shapes lined the space, but at first that was all I could see. Holmes had paused by the door, and my eyes adjusted slowly as I waited for him to move.

We stood in a large dark room filled with piles of crates. A path through the stacks before us showed me a table in the centre, lit faintly by high windows. Holmes headed towards it.

I joined him as he began to cursorily examine the objects on the table. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; it was merely a jumble of papers, tools, and parts of the steam cylinders that lay in varying states of disassembly on the floor around it.

Holmes took my arm as I heard the sound of a door opening. He pulled me to the side of the room closest to the sound, but we remained shielded from the front door by the crates. We would still be obvious if anyone walked all the way into the warehouse.

“What do you want?”

It was faint, but I could make out voices. The watchman was at the door, then. These must be the men Holmes was observing. I checked that my revolver was still in my pocket as we listened. I couldn’t work out the words, until one of the voices was suddenly raised.

“We ain’t got time for this.”

“Here,” said the watchman, his tone changing, “are you lot -”

He was interrupted by a gunshot.

I do not recall precisely what happened next, but it could not have been more than five seconds later when I found myself against the wall behind a stack of crates, my ears still ringing, sprawled on top of Sherlock Holmes. I had lost control of my nerves before this, but never so dramatically, and I had never before accosted my friend in the process. I began to stammer an apology, wondering what I had mistaken for a shot. I had thought I was finished with this cowardice.

“Hush,” said Holmes at once. Mostly from surprise, I did. From the stillness in his face I knew he was listening fiercely. In a moment I heard it too.

The conversation at the door was continuing, though now I couldn’t make out any words. There was a click, and the sound of a door opening, and footsteps.

“Stupid. Someone’ll have heard it.”

“No one will care in this part of town.”

“You could have just tapped him on the head. All right, where...” The voices faded to unintelligible murmurs. I wondered if Holmes could hear better, or deduce whether the two men were in another room or were simply speaking more quietly. I could not tell from his unchanging expression of pure concentration.

His hands were gripping my shoulders, I noticed, irrelevant as it was. He must have been doing so ever since I had pulled him behind cover, for neither of us had moved since.

“Where is he?” shouted one of the men in irritation. “It’s quarter past! This building is empty!”

“Are they looking for you?” I whispered. Holmes shook his head and placed one finger against my lips.

“You think that fool’s on to us?”

“More likely he’s been warned. That rat Escott -”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with Escott. Shut your mouth and look for Collins.”

Their search, it appeared, was fruitless. “He ain’t hiding, is he?” asked one of the men. “No reason to.”

“If he wanted to he’d just go home.”

“Know where he lives?”

“No. Escott should, though. He followed him.”

“Let’s go back to Royal’s and see if he’s there.”

“Go back to her Ladyship and tell her we ain’t done it?”

Their footsteps grew louder as they approached our side of the warehouse and then faded as they turned to the front door.

“Not our fault, is it? He ain’t here. Nothing we can do now.”

“That’s not how she’ll see it, I promise you.”

Holmes waited for several minutes after the door shut behind them, perfectly still. Without the distraction of their conversation my mind was occupied by our position. Holmes was not objecting, but I knew perfectly well how focused he was when on a case. And there was no reason why I should be on top of him.

Oh, for God’s sake, this will never be published. I wanted him madly, and in spite of the mysterious conversation we had overheard I was focused entirely on his body stretched out beneath mine. I did not care about the case for that moment. But I was not in the Army any longer, and told myself I had no excuse for such thoughts.

“We can get up now,” said Holmes. I jumped at the sound of his voice, and then stood. He sprang up with his usual grace and headed back to the centre of the warehouse.

“Should we see to the watchman?” I asked.

“No time,” said Holmes. “I _do_ know where Collins lives, and as he hasn’t come here he will be with his daughter.” I started for the front door, but Holmes pulled me around and pointed to the way we had come in.

Once in the alley again he glanced around before taking my hand and guiding me down to another street. “You’ve excellent reflexes, Watson,” he said, grinning at me as we went.

“I was taken by surprise,” I said, grateful for the opportunity as I had had no idea how to bring it up. “I truly am most dreadfully sorry for accosting you like that.”

He turned in surprise and stared at me. “Were it not for your quick action we would likely have been discovered. I wish to thank you for it, not castigate you.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking at all.” I took a deep breath. Even if this time it had turned out well, he deserved to be warned of it all for the future. “I often react without thinking when I am startled, since returning from Afghanistan.”

“I have noticed,” he said. Of course he had; I jumped even when Mrs. Hudson put a tea tray down too violently. But I should have been more discreet, or less nervy. God, I had thought when I first moved in with Holmes that it would go away soon.

He placed his free hand on my shoulder for a moment. “My dear Watson, it does no harm if you are not in danger, and if you are it could be invaluable. Why are you apologizing?”

I found I had no answer for him. He smiled at me and pulled me onward.

We must have been almost at the conclusion of the mystery, for Holmes was nearly glowing with the joy of the chase. His excitement was contagious, and I shortly found myself smiling as well as we navigated the depths of Southwark. It was lucky I had my hand in his, for the streets grew narrow and twisted, and then barely streets at all.

At last we came to a small shed pressed between two larger buildings, all of the three in desperate need of repair. Holmes knocked on the door.

It was answered by a short blonde girl, her face marred by signs of worry. At the sight of us she raised a revolver. “You know where my father is?” she asked.

I was shocked into stillness; Holmes, as usual, was calm. “We were hoping he was here, Miss Collins,” he said, carefully not moving. “Is he out, then?” I nearly laughed at his courteous tone.

“You’re not coming in when he’s not here,” she said, waving us away with the gun. “Go on, leave.”

“Tell me where he said he would be, and I will try to find him for you,” said Holmes. “We mean you no harm, Miss Collins. Kindly lower the gun.” To my relief, she moved it so it wasn’t pointing straight at him anymore. She was clearly not skilled with firearms, and I did not want my friend or myself to be in the direct line of fire should she make a mistake.

“Who’s asking?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and finding people is my business.”

“Yeah? And what are you finding him for?”

“We have good reason to believe he is in danger,” said Holmes. Miss Collins’ expression changed from suspicion to fear.

“From _who_?”

“From someone he has angered. We will take him out of their reach.” I nearly laughed, for if Collins was the murderer, what he said was certainly true. It was cruel, no doubt, but I suppose I was still not quite myself from the excitement earlier.

“He’s at work tonight.”

“Where does he work?”

She shrugged. “Odd jobs. Whatever’ll take him. Tonight he was guarding a warehouse at the docks. In Tenison Street.”

“By God,” Holmes swore. “Watson! What a fool I have been!” I understood him only too well. He ran off, and I followed him.

The journey back to the warehouse seemed to take far longer than the trip from it, and my leg ached by the end. We at last arrived and Holmes led me around to the front.

No one had looked too closely at the building in the interim. In such an area, it wasn’t surprising. The man still lay sprawled by the entrance, fair haired and heavyset. I went to my knees to examine him, and Holmes lit his lantern and passed it to me.

The wound was in the shoulder, not the chest. His left shoulder. It couldn’t have killed him at once, only knocked him over and disabled him. Blood pooled all around him. He might have passed out from the pain, or if he had knocked his head as he fell, but he would still have died slowly, of blood loss.

“What is it, Watson?”

I looked up from the body, feeling slightly ill. “Bullet wound to the shoulder, probably severing the subclavian artery. Death from blood loss.” That much was automatic. I continued, without knowing why. “This would not have been immediately fatal. If I was here sooner, I could have...”

I trailed off. Holmes looked stricken. “And I dragged you away.”

“What? Nonsense. I was only too glad to follow you. I was not thinking of him at all.”

Holmes had regained his usual composure almost at once, and crouched next to the body. “ _I_ was thinking, my dear Watson, that the shooters might return. And I was right. You could not have known that he was only injured, dear fellow. Besides, he is most definitely our man.” He held up the man’s right hand, missing the tip of one finger. Then he sprang up and went to the door.

I tried to stand and my leg refused to allow it. I gritted my teeth, picked up my walking stick from beside me, and shoved myself up using it and the wall. Holmes, thankfully, was examining the door, and not paying attention to my weakness.

“I was at least not as much of a fool as Mrs. Royal’s men,” said Holmes. “They have fulfilled their commission without knowing it, and will get none of the information she sent them for.”

“You know why they were here? And who sent them?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been working for Mrs. Royal for the last week.”

“The madam?”

“Yes. As she already had an interest in searching for our culprit, I thought I might as well use her organization instead of building my own. So I offered my services, under an assumed name, and since I had something of value to her she took me on.”

“Something of value?”

“Collins’ name. I was hoping, however, to be able to call the police in to round up all of them, rather than ... this.” He kicked the wall.

“But why did he do it?” I asked.

“Collins?” asked Holmes absently. “His daughter. Wait.” He took out his watch. “My dear fellow, it’s nearly one. Let us continue this conversation at home.”

“Can we get a cab here?” I asked, and then silently cursed myself for it. Of course we couldn’t.

“I am afraid not, but just over Waterloo Bridge and we’ll be on the Strand. Follow me, Watson.”

He thankfully did not offer his shoulder or any other assistance, but he remained at my pace rather than stretching his long legs to his normal speed. I focused my mind on cursing the idiocy of whoever had designed the bridge and managed reasonably well.

The Strand was still buzzing with the last of the theatre crowd. Holmes hesitated for the barest second before hailing a cab, and then asked the driver, “Stop at the West Strand telegraph office a moment, will you? I’ve a wire to send.”

After finishing his business at that miracle of modern society, Holmes leapt back into the cab, calling out our address. “Thank God for that office being open all night, Watson,” he said. “I shouldn’t like to leave Mr. Collins’ body on the street til morning.”

“You have informed the police, then.”

“Yes. Perhaps we should drive to Miss Collins and tell her as well. She is after all my client.” He looked very reluctant at the prospect.

“It will do her no good to be woken at one in the morning to hear of her father’s death,” I said, though I knew I was responding more to Holmes’ distress than Miss Collins’. “She might take it better after a night’s sleep.”

“I suppose, after we tell the police the whole story.”

“I don’t know most of it myself.”

“Ah. Well, it is late, and probably we should both be in our beds, but if you are interested I could go over it.”

“I think I’ve seen rather too much to be able to sleep without hearing more.”

“At home, then. After tonight we both need warming up.”

Half an hour later we were ensconced with brandies before the fire in Baker Street, and my leg was raised on a cushion. Holmes finished a cigarette before saying anything, his hands, which had been twisting in his lap, regaining their accustomed grace.

“You saw everything I did at the scene, of course, Watson,” he said when he had relaxed into a sort of calm. “The brutality of the crime, and the signs of the victim having been beaten after death, both suggested a motive of revenge. The objects on the table made this certain: they were not Tarken’s, so the murderer brought them there to slander him. It shows a deep and abiding hatred, Watson, and so all that was necessary was to find someone with a motive to hate Mr. Tarken. When the maid told us that story of the young woman coming to reprimand him, it became clear that anyone with a close connection to her would likely have some cause for anger on her behalf.”

“But why would Tarken agree to see him?”

“Well. Both parties are dead, so it is pure conjecture, but I believe he made an appointment with Tarken for something else – employment, possibly – one urgent enough for a meeting late at night. He could not have intended to kill Tarken at first, or he would have brought his gun. So he wanted some kind of reparations for Miss Collins’ treatment, and Tarken’s behaviour was insulting enough that he acted in anger with the first weapon he laid his hands on.”

“But how could you trace him just from Miss Collins? It is hardly an unusual name.”

“Ah, Watson, that was the beauty of it. I did not trace him. I let Mrs. Royal do it for me.”

“The brothel-keeper, the woman we met?”

“Yes. I piqued her curiosity when we visited her, and then when we were fortunate enough to learn the girl’s last name I thought it likely that she would appreciate the information, so I traded it for employment hunting him down. As it turns out, he had worked for her some months ago, but quit in disgust when he realized quite how terrible this particular establishment was – worse than we had thought, Watson. Far worse.”

“And you have been working for her as well?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!”

“She has gotten no benefit from it, trust me. But it has been rather amusing. Stop staring at me in that appalled way, Watson; I stayed away from her main business. I let her men find out enough for me to find Collins and follow him around a little. I only wish I had been given some hint that he would be working at that warehouse, rather than merely using it as a conveniently empty meeting place.”

“ _He_ scheduled the meeting at the warehouse, then?”

“Indeed. Mrs. Royal sent word to him through me implying that she felt the need to pay him his back wages. I do not think it would have worked at any other time – he was not fond of her at all – but he has been having difficulties with money recently – more than his usual problems that way, which are considerable. I learned last night where he lived, but when he suggested the meeting I thought it best to keep his address to myself – I intended, you see, to catch him with Mrs. Royal’s men as well and hand them all over to the police.”

“On your own?” I was horrified.

“No, of course not. You were with me.”

“Me, Holmes?”

“Yes, of course. I know your skills, Watson, and we were as armed as they. I have little doubt that together we could have triumphed.”

“Holmes,” I said, though I was blushing at his praise, “that was ridiculously foolhardy. I am” _crippled_ “wounded, and could have been of little use -”

“You are hardly an invalid, Watson,” he interrupted impatiently. “I believe I told you as much earlier tonight. We should have done quite well, if I had not been such a fool. Good God, when I think that if I had only realized that he was the watchman we could no doubt have overpowered him easily before they even arrived -” He threw up his hands, and then leaned back on the settee with a sort of resignation. I had not seen him like this often, but when I had he had followed it with at least a week of silent gloom.

“It is just such a waste, Watson,” he said quietly. “But of course the law would have killed him anyway.”

“He did it in revenge for what Tarken had done to his daughter?”

“Oh yes.” He was staring blankly at the fire. “Once we had talked to the maid, it was easy enough to find the local constables and another one of his -” he broke off with a shudder.

“Tarken, you see,” he continued after a breath, “searched for young women, ones without money or status, courted them, invited them over late at night, and installed them as extremely cheap mistresses. They didn’t live with him, only visited. He overwhelmed them with small luxuries and promised them marriage – without, of course, using any words that would be true grounds for a suit against him. He chose the ones without the wherewithal to file one anyway. And then, when his interest moved on, he sent them away and told the constables they were beggar women or whores harassing him, and paid them to believe him.” He did not even seem to notice the obscenity.

“Miss Collins was just another of these. She is probably pregnant. God knows what will happen to her. And yet her father undoubtedly killed him, and might well have done it again to someone else, should he feel he had cause.” He drew his knees up to his chest.

“It can’t be solved, Watson,” he said. “None of it can ever be truly solved.”

I did not think he even knew he was speaking aloud, by then, but I could not merely sit and watch him. I limped to the settee and slid my arm around his shoulders as I sat down. He did not react. I leaned back and thought of bastard children, and poverty, and war, and limbs that would never reach their full strength again. Holmes slowly leaned sideways against me, and I just as slowly reached to hold him closer.

“I missed it,” he said eventually. “Missed it entirely. And even if I had not, if I had been what you think – if I had been paying attention, it would change nothing for Miss Collins. It is all so utterly useless. Just as it was useless for him to kill Tarken. Is the law any better than that?”

“Tarken will not ruin any more girls, and Collins will not kill anyone else,” I whispered, though I knew it was not what he meant.

“But nothing can be corrected,” said Holmes with despair, and then with a gesture of frustration he tried to shove himself away from me. My hands tightened instinctively. “Watson,” he said, impatiently.

I reached for anything to say that would stop him from returning to his usual guardedness. “I thought the same when I returned to England with my health destroyed and my nerves broken and everything worthwhile in life tasting of sand,” I said. I barely had the energy remaining to be shocked by myself for the admission. “And then I met you.”

He went quite still in my arms.

“You have been very kind tonight, in saying that I am not a burden to you,” I said. “But if you mean it honestly, you must admit that some ills can be corrected, and surely Maiwand is quite as serious as anything in London.”

“Never a burden, Watson,” said Holmes. “Never.”

For a long time after that we sat in silence, our heads leaning against each other.

“I still feel that I have done nothing in this case but make things worse,” he said at last, as though the words were being pulled from him.

“You can be a witness at Mrs. Royal’s trial,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment. “I can, yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He placed one hand on my shoulder.

Time blurred, as it does late at night, and some time later I found myself reclining against him. I watched the dying flames, thinking that I ought to get up though I couldn’t think why. Holmes was moving beneath me and I remembered, until he pulled me downwards. I lay next to him, my head pillowed on his hard chest, and did not even find it uncomfortable, though when I woke up properly the next morning half my muscles had cramped.

I stood as fast as my two-year-old injuries would allow me. Holmes blinked up at me and then raised himself more slowly.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said. “I am sorry; last night cannot have been good for your leg.”

“It will recover, I suppose,” I said. “Holmes -”

He stood and held his hand out to me, smiling slightly. “Thank you,” he said.

I had no idea what to say, or what I _could_ say. “Thank you,” I told him. I wished he was not such an enigma – but then, would he have pulled me in as he had?

“No need,” said Holmes, giving me a sidelong smile as he retreated to his bedroom. I took myself upstairs, rubbing at my stiff muscles as I went. Mentally, I felt more comfortable than I had in ages, though I should have been terribly embarrassed.

We saw the police after breakfast. The body of Martin Collins was identified by his daughter, and the case closed after Holmes’ evidence. Holmes went to speak to some of Scotland Yard’s detectives privately, while I saw to Miss Collins.

She had me write to her aunt in Sussex, who has taken her in without scorning her for her condition. I can’t say what her future is likely to be like, but for the moment she is safe and provided for, at the least.

Holmes saw her onto the train himself, then returned to his unspecified “work” – he had told me nothing, but I expected it was tracking down Mrs. Royal’s other hired men and encouraging them to inform on her in exchange for freedom from prosecution. Some time later she was tried under the Offences Against the Person Act and convicted. Almost none of her patrons were charged.

I believe Holmes still felt that it was not enough. I am beginning to think he never does.


End file.
